


Soldiers

by Fenris30



Series: Reticent Watcher [2]
Category: Tekken
Genre: Battle, Blood, Blood and Gore, Fight Scenes, Fighting, Gen, Gore, Martial Arts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4679951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenris30/pseuds/Fenris30
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergei Dragunov is sent on a quiet mission; naturally, things spiral toward the violent side. In a rare moment of need, he meets a man who later ends up becoming one of his best friends; not an easy feat for a man like Sergei.</p><p>Part of the Reticent Watcher series; this is a prequel to the first arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> For a timeline reference, this takes place roughly nine months before the start of 'Reticent Watcher.' This is a background story, part of Reticent Watcher, and details how Lars and Sergei met; it also goes a little more into Sergei's background(which was started in Scars of Silence, and also detailed a bit in other stories, too. I'm probably never going to feed all of it-I think he stands to keep some mystery-but I like giving odds and ends to him.)
> 
> Note that this story IS more heavily Sergei-centric than Lars-centric, since the fic series is based on Sergei and Lili; Lars simply makes appearances in it(and will continue to, don't worry, Lars fans-he's friends with the both of them now.) I think I might detail Lili's background a bit more in other stories, too; hers may not be as checkered, but I think it would be fun looking at some of her things before now. 
> 
> Graphic violence is in this story, as is a bit of 'medical gore' for those squeamish about medical procedures.

Sergei sat in his jeep, which was parked about a mile from the place he needed to be.

It was the end of the summer, and the heat was stifling outside; he had the air conditioning on in the jeep as he sat. He did not particularly like the heat, but nor did he really mind it. He could deal with anything. Heat was nothing compared to a raging thunderstorm that seemingly lasted days, lightning crashing everywhere-or a blizzard and numbing cold so bad that one could get frostbite from simply being exposed in it for a short time.

He simply sat, his immense leg propped up the best he could on the partition between seats with some music playing softly; Sergei did enjoy music. He had fairly broad tastes, though took mostly toward an odd pairing of either classical or industrial music, the latter which he happened to be playing now. He had a little-known hobby-known only to some of his longest-known comrades-of singing, having been somewhat trained in classical singing when he was younger. The adults at the orphanage where he lived tried to foster creativity as a manner of giving the kids some focus somewhere. Music was one of his non-violent escapes during his rough and unrefined teen years. The harsh industrial music had appealed to his aggressive, militaristic side while the classical helped soothe him somewhat, appealing to that calm, stoic side of him which one usually saw when he was not fighting...and even sometimes when he was.

Other men he knew in the military enjoyed going out often, or they had significant others; he had no interest in 'nights out', or in romance. Even his one semi-attempt at it as a teenager, he did not feel anything. He had his interests-besides music, weapons collecting, and fighting, he enjoyed books very much.

He lit a cigarette, cracking the window. His duty tonight was a fairly simple one. There was a small office building close to the city's outskirts that was public-a sort of city-hall building. The Zaibatsu did use this as a sort of front for something. He was to walk in-they would be likely a bit haphazard about their security due to the recent confusion-examine a few of the rooms, and walk out discreetly with some things. He wondered why the military did not just command him to do a smash-and-grab, but he did not question his orders.

He was dressed and armed lightly. He did have a concealed pistol-his GSh-18-on his person, though otherwise he simply had on camouflage trousers, his heavy, steel-reinforced combat boots and a tank top due to the heat. He looked military, but also fairly off-duty at the moment. He should not run into any trouble. If he did, he could crush it rather easily even without a weapon.

Sergei Dragunov got his nickname for a reason, and that reason was his enormous kill count-most of which was performed bare-handed, and sometimes even in a single blow. Most enemies would break and run after seeing one of their own fall over, their skull left fractured and bleeding by a single, well-placed roundhouse kick.

He exhaled, checking his watch. It was late evening. The place was open until eight o' clock, to his knowledge; he was to go in close to that to ensure a fairly easy time. With few people around and any small security there likely not concerned with anything, it should keep it quiet. Sergei's presence was usually enough to intimidate people into not asking any questions; his deathly pale frame was built heavily, he towered over most men by a full head and was covered in scars. His silence was equally unnerving, as were his light eyes that looked almost unnatural.

He turned the jeep off before opening the door and hopping out; he finished the cigarette, absently grinding it out under his heel. He stretched out, deciding despite the stagnant and heavy evening air he would walk around the block before heading inside. He would have all night to soak up an air conditioned room with some vodka afterward.

Or so he thought.

 

–

 

 _Hmph. Figures._ Sergei laughed bitterly to himself, wiping some of the blood from his face; blood that had spattered out when he smashed a man's nose in with his fist before kicking him to the ground, the steel toe of his boot shattering his jaw as he was on his knees.

He now had the man on his back in front of him, his enormous boot-heel on his neck. He stepped down until he felt the man's neck crush; the only thing he could do before he died was spit out blood and teeth. His eyes had a terror in them that Sergei was used to seeing when he would stare at someone before he killed them.

The acrid smoke stung Sergei's nose and eyes as he breathed it in; he wished he had his gas mask, but alas, he did not. The pain did not bother him though-nor did the pain of the four knife wounds. He had tied them off the best he could; they did not cut any arteries, and he would be fine. He had taken worse, though he had to be careful about their heavier weaponry, as he did not have armor on given the situation. Rivulets of sweat dripped down the side of his face, mixing with the blood. It looked, smelled, and practically _felt_ like hell in this place...or so a lesser man may have thought.

What was supposed to be that rather routine and quiet information grab in a facility turned into an ambush and bloodbath...though most of it was not Sergei's.

The Mishima Zaibatsu he knew were in a bit of chaos at the moment, yet they were still together and running; they were battling the G-Corporation soldiers, and despite the Russian military having been working occasionally with some branches of the G-Corp, he had gotten word that the soldiers were killing any outsiders on sight. The military was not friendly-nor exactly enemies-with G-Corp, they simply, at times, had deals with them from time to time. Apparently whoever had done the recon for this job did not catch the fact they might have been 'meeting up' here this night. Sergei thought he may have to have a word with this man after all of this.

He was out of ammunition for his handgun-he never brought more than a clip when he was on day to day work because he only used it if necessary-and figured this time he may have wanted more, but there was no use in cursing about it. The fact the blood on his body-particularly on his fists, arms, and boots-was not his own and made up a majority of the blood on his body-showed that he did not particularly _need_ a gun.

Still-in an ambush, especially with more heavily armed soldiers-it may have been nice to have.

He grit his teeth and pressed on; Sergei had already killed at least twenty of their number; a few with bullets, most with his own bare hands, and a mix; remembering the final bullet used to shoot out one's kneecap before he smashed his face in against the wall. He was feeling particularly vindictive at this point.

He had his duty, and he would fulfill it. His superior had asked him to take care of some files in this compound, and did just that; when he got out of this hellhole-it was not a matter of _if,_ as Sergei would not accept defeat-he would find out what went wrong. If he had made a mistake, he would make sure that he would fix it, and if it was a leak, he would find the source and silence it.

Brutally.

Turning the corner, there were three more men. Not bothering with any sort of posturing, he charged; swinging his huge fist down in a haymaker to crack the first man in the temple; he sank to his knees as Sergei grappled with him a moment, easily overpowering him before grasping his head and twisting violently; the _snap_ was audible. He ran another's head into the wall with his hand; once, twice, and then a third time. He pulled him back, his face was a mask of blood. He kneed him twice, finally kicking him in the temple and crushing it in.

He hit the ground as the small-caliber bullet tore into his bare shoulder. He got to his knees, a snarl on his scarred lip; he bit back the pain-he had been shot more than once before-and propelled himself forward with his powerful legs. He hit the man with his good arm, tackling him down. He smashed him in the face twice with his left fist, not wanting to disturb his right arm; he then stood, stomping down on his face with his huge boot, a wet _crunch_ echoing through the room and blood spraying out. Given the man just shot him, Sergei growled and stomped again...and again. The man's head was reduced to a misshapen, gory horror; blood splattered all the way up into Sergei's face.

In his rage-which would hit him from time to time in combat-he did not see the fourth man come up behind him...also with a handgun, but one of a much higher caliber. He also had a clean shot, though after seeing the mess that Sergei just made of the man in front of him, he was a _bit_ shaky.

When it cocked, Sergei turned; but before the man could pull the trigger a figure appeared behind him. The enemy's head was grabbed from above and ripped backward so hard that the back of his head actually touched his back; Sergei thought absently that whoever this was, they had amazing strength. The snap was _very_ loud, Sergei guessing that he was practically decapitated. A bit more and he figured the man's head would have been torn from his body.

The broken corpse-blood pouring from his nose and mouth-was dropped to the ground. His shadowed killer stepped into the room, unceremoniously right onto the corpse as he walked in, seemingly none too interested in respecting the dead.

The man was around six feet tall-about six inches shorter than Sergei. He was wearing the tattered armor of the Tekken Force-bloodied and ruined from combat, though Sergei suspected most of the blood was not his, either. There was not much left of it; the man was practically shirtless. He lacked Sergei's bulk, but regardless, he knew this man was an extremely powerful fighter. The man had his own wounds-scattered around his body, with blood running from the corner of his mouth. His eyes looked menacing at this moment, as if he had seen a lot; far too much, to be sure. His medium-length brown hair was wild, though through all of this he carried himself like a soldier.

Sergei looked him up and down, eyeing the outfit and the corpses on the floor. The man's eyes trailed from him to the corpses as well...particularly the one with the smashed-in skull at his feet, blood flowing from the remaining mess at an alarming rate. They were silent for a few moments. The strange man finally spoke up.

“Your camouflage,” he started. “Russian military?”

Sergei nodded, wiping a bit of the blood from his face with hand. He looked at his uniform. “Should I be killing you?”

The man snorted, though Sergei could see the faintest ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lip, almost as if he had not smiled in awhile. “They are as much my enemy as yours.”

Sergei looked down at the dead man who could have killed him. He was careless, he knew. He should have checked for him. He could not make mistakes like this. “Thank you,” he said. Sergei may not have liked many people at all in his lifetime, but he knew how to be polite to someone who helped him.

The man nodded. “Lars,” he said, saluting. Sergei saluted back.

“Sergei,” he replied.

“Can you fight?”

Sergei nodded. “I only need one arm.”

“How many are left?”

“None,” Sergei replied.

Lars blinked. “You killed them all?”

Sergei smirked evilly. He cracked his knuckles, kicking the corpse with the destroyed head aside. Blood practically covered the floor from one end to the other between the bodies. Lars wondered just what sort of man he was.

“They just don't know it yet.”

The other man snorted laughter as Sergei turned to kick aside the brutalized corpses, going toward the computers. He snatched up a few of the disks-they ran fairly old-fashioned in places like these, they knew, though on the bright side for them someone had to break directly in. He pocketed them, turning around and nodding.

He had no idea, but Lars quickly decided that he sort of liked this huge and silent man. He knew how to take care of business, that was for sure. He felt a touch on his shoulder.

“Does that bother you too much?,” Lars nodded toward the wound. He knew how much gunshots could hurt.

Sergei only shook his head, pressing ahead. There were a few more left that he 'owed' at the moment, and he could tell by the look on the other man's face that he was quite looking forward to this, as well. He did not know this man, but he knew he was military, or was at one point. They seemed to have an early mutual respect.

There weren't many men left. Sergei figured Lars had taken care of the rest of them. He seemed to have a tense anger about him, though Sergei was not one to press matters like this. He was a battle comrade right now, and he doubted they would even run into each other again after they separated. They had foes to battle through though, so they focused.

After some time, they finally reached the basement level, even bloodier than they were before they left the room. It was not as hot here; despite the air being off in the place-probably an emergency measure, they didn't know-being underground kept it cooler. Sergei guessed the last few were hiding out here, possibly having holed up after hearing about what happened to the rest of them. Sergei was surprised; he usually preferred fighting alone, though he fought very well with this man. Lars felt the same, unbeknownst to him.

Kicking the door in, Sergei grabbed the first guard by the head with his good hand, smashing it twice into the wall; the man fell to his knees as blood sprayed from his smashed nose. Even more blood-and things much worse than blood-sprayed everywhere as he brutally smashed his head against the concrete wall with his heel twice.

His partner seemed too horrified to even move; Lars quickly took care of him with a series of hits; punches, an uppercut to his jaw which clearly shattered it, and a jumping kick under the chin which snapped his neck, more blood from his already ruined face spraying.

It would have been terrifying to watch if someone who had never seen a man die had been there.

There was one more man; a man whom Lars looked upon with an expression which may have been almost hate, if Sergei had to judge. He knew something might have been personal here; he did not know what. He stepped back, nodding to Lars as he walked out of the room. The stranger who helped him was clearly an incredible fighter, and Sergei did not think he would have any trouble dealing with the man on his own.

The sounds that came from the room as he walked toward the stairs told him he was correct in his assessment. He simply left to go to the front of the compound, sitting by the wall, pulling a canteen out. He always carried one with him when it was this hot, as he never knew how long he would be on a job. He drank some from it, starting to examine his wounds. In hindsight, he probably should have left someone alive to question, but it was too late for that now. While he had no actual orders either way, he knew his superiors may have liked him to question someone. Sergei was not a perfect man and leaving alive people to question-after he was in the full-bore haze of combat-was one of this problems, and had been for a decade now. He was not some sort of uncontrolled maniac, but he had little patience for men trying to kill him and this tended to show. He had to be talked with a few times about this.

He was easily the best soldier they had in terms of sheer combat potential, and he _always_ obeyed his orders-if he was told to take an enemy alive, he did-but generally speaking if one did not tell him to spare an enemy, he left none alive. In his mind, a living enemy was an enemy that can regroup and cause even more trouble. 

In a short while, Lars stepped out, a little bloodier than he was when Sergei left him, though still not in Sergei's condition. Sergei stood, moving his wounded arm. It was not broken, though it hurt. He was able to resist the pain, even if he didn't particularly _like_ getting shot.

Lars spoke up. “I know a place we can go.” Lars did not fully trust him yet-but they had mutual enemies and this man battled beside him the entire way down. He had a brute strength about him that was incredible; it seemed downright inhuman. Lars was no stranger to that-his...abilities granted him more power than an ordinary person, after all, but to meet another-with seemingly no visible powers-with that sort of strength was odd.

Sergei only nodded. While he did not fully trust him either yet-it took a very, very long time for him to develop that-he trusted him enough to follow him.

 

–

 

The place Lars led them to was a rather run-down looking apartment; a sort of safehouse. Sergei got the feeling he had been on the run for a short while at least; he wondered why he still wore the almost-destroyed and tattered armor, but he figured he might have his reasons.

The flat was bare bones; it had a bed, table, a small kitchen, and various other bits scattered about. It did have a bathroom, where Sergei went to go check himself out in the mirror. He removed the bloodied tank top, checking his wounds out.

Most of them were not bad; some were deeper than he would have liked, but he had taken worse. The bullet, however, would have to come out...and he could not reach it very well. He turned on the water and grabbed a towel, giving Lars a questioning look as he held it up. He nodded.

Sergei turned back, washing everything clean and drying it off; blood-both his and everyone else's-appearing in the sink, on the floor, and on the counter. He heard the water running in the other room and guessed Lars was washing up as well, and he sort of hoped they could clean it up enough that he wouldn't have to call in a favor. Given they were somewhere in Japan, it could take awhile for any of his people to get there. Luckily not too much got tracked in, though he would have to scrub the hell out of his boots before he left. There would be nothing to do with the dark gray tank top, most likely; the blood soaked it far too much. A man walking around shirtless in this heat, at least, would not seem too weird, though it was late by now.

He walked back into the other room after cleaning up as best he could; he noticed Lars putting a bottle of whiskey on the table. Sergei snorted a bit of laughter. Lars looked over at him as he took out various tools; obvious stuff from a first aid kit, including tweezers, a probe, gauze, rubbing alcohol and a small knife. He handed Sergei the whiskey.

“You might want this.”

“Will I have to kill you for trying to cut my throat?” Sergei asked, taking the bottle. He realized Lars was setting up to extract the bullet; it was clear he was somewhat trained in field medicine, much like him self. The better soldiers took it upon themselves to learn some.

Lars chuckled again. “We have the same enemy.”

Sergei nodded, drinking some. It wasn't bad stuff to be kept in a hideout.

He trusted Lars a fair amount for more than one reason. They did have the same enemy, even though that in and of itself wasn't enough to trust someone. If he had truly wanted him dead, he could have let the man shoot him with a heavy-caliber handgun at close range; as staggeringly tough as Sergei was, he likely could not have survived that if it had hit a vital.

Sergei guessed that he was almost harboring some guilt from the way he was acting right now. He seemed like he was in an awful hurry to help a stranger, and he also seemed a little distracted, despite his own wounds. Sergei, being a rather private man, did not press the matter.

He lit a cigarette as Lars began to probe around for the slug; it did not go deep, and sure enough-in just a few moments-he had it with minimal cutting. He dropped the bloody piece of metal on the table, making sure there was no other shrapnel. There was not; it entered clean. He cleaned it up the best he could with the rubbing alcohol.

Sergei looked at it after, drinking more whiskey. It was sore, to be sure. He had an insanely high pain tolerance, however. He stood, going silently to the bathroom again to wash and bandage it.

Lars had started to clean the kitchen up; it was left quite a mess from the makeshift surgery. Sergei figured he could at least throw in to help out.

 

–

 

It took quite awhile, but eventually the small flat looked about like they did when they first arrived. Sergei sat at the table, the two of them now bandaged up where they needed to be; luckily the other wounds were just from knife, fist, or club, and were not that serious as they had been considerably more skilled and powerful than their assailants.

Or victims, as the case may be.

Sergei poured another glass of the whiskey, sliding the bottle over to Lars along with his pack of smokes after he took another for himself. Lars looked at it gratefully, taking one out and lighting it. He then sat back, staring at Sergei with his own glass in his hand.

Sergei blinked as he lit his smoke, looking over at him questioningly

“Do...you talk?” Lars finally said, chuckling.

Sergei blew out a stream of smoke. “If I have to.” He smirked. “Thank you again.”

Lars laughed, the tenseness seemingly falling off of him. “You destroyed so many of them. I'm usually not...so bloodthirsty. I...enjoyed that.” He looked off to the side.

Sergei still did not press the matter. It was not his style. He only nodded.

“Didn't want you to stay injured. I don't like leaving men behind.”

 _There it is,_ he thought. He only took a drag of the cigarette. “I usually work alone.”

“Must have it's benefits.”

He nodded. He took another sip, moving his arm around. It would be fine, he could feel. He had taken worse.

They drank and smoke in silence for a few moments. Sergei scratched at a spot of blood on his trousers. They looked a little horrific, to be fair; he did try to wipe as much as the blood as he could from them. Lars looked at him again after some time, sliding the glass around the table.

“Where do you go after this?”

“Back to the base. Classified, of course.”

“I understand.” Lars sat back in the chair. “We have the same enemy. I used to be a part of them. If you need to know information on their whereabouts, I will gladly divulge it. Anything to give them a bloody nose. Or worse.” He laughed bitterly. “This entire war is bullshit. G-Corporation fights the Zaibatsu. I've had to fight them both. They've both tried to kill me. The soldiers killed my friend. ”

Sergei nodded once. “That is the nature of war.” He paused. “My condolences.” Sergei had lost men before. Good ones. Ones he was somewhat close to, even. He had been through things that would break others' minds to pieces. He stood strong, though. He was different than a lot of the other men he fought with.

There were times that only through brutal combat could he find solace. Maybe it was him striking out for vengeance long past...he never knew, nor did he think much about it.

“You seem like you enjoy fighting.” Lars actually was stunned Sergei would even offer condolences-he did not seem the type. It actually made him feel just a little better. He missed Tougou fiercely, but he knew he had to carry on. He too had been through a lot in his time; one did not fight wars and not go through hell at least once. Many men died from his hands as well, and much like Sergei, he did not use weapons unless he absolutely had to. He watched many die in his grasp or on the ground in front of him.

“I do my job,” Sergei replied. He smirked a bit evilly, though.

Lars lit another cigarette. “We fought together once. I won't try to pry into you. Just know you have a contact.”

“You as well. I cannot divulge classified information, but...” He lit another cigarette himself. “If I can, I will help you in your fight.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “To return the favor.”

The two men sat in silence again. Lars had a _slight_ buzz going from the whiskey, but he had a fair tolerance. Sergei felt like he had something to drink, but that was about it. He stood, nodding once and going over to his jacket.

“I should go. Reports.”

Lars stood, setting his cigarette down into the ashtray. He saluted, and offered his hand out. His eyes had long lost that menacing cast; they looked rather kind at this point. Sergei guessed it may have been his truer nature; he simply had a dark side to him that could come out during more trying times.

Sergei returned the salute and grasped his hand in a firm handshake.

“Until next time,” Lars said. He hoped he would meet him again. As frightening as he was, he liked his style.

“Yes.” He started to leave. Lars spoke up again.

“Hey...do you like vodka?”

Sergei stopped, turning his head slightly. He smirked. “Of course.”

“Next time, then.”

Sergei turned fully around, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I will bring it.”

Lars blinked. “Why?”

“I must insist on bringing the better kind.” He chuckled. Lars laughed.

“Swedish vodka isn't _that_ bad, you know.”

Sergei smiled, nodding once. Lars was nonplussed; he wasn't sure this guy had an actual sense of humor that wasn't gallows-related, as shown earlier when he asked if he liked fighting. He was pleasantly surprised, though.

Sergei finally turned and left. He liked this Lars. He was fairly no-nonsense himself, though more talkative and considerably more easygoing, though still with a definite military streak. Truth be told, he wished him luck on his endeavors. Sergei himself had an interesting sounding job coming up in about nine months, though he did not know too much about it, except that he had to act as a bodyguard of sorts for a rich family; one that had problems with the Zaibatsu, so there was a connection. What little he knew told him the head of the family had contacted the military since they had dealings together.

He did not think too far ahead into the future, usually. He would know more when the time was right. 

But between this man and his own work, he thought both the Zaibatsu and the G-Corporation were going to have _quite_ a bit of trouble on their hands in the coming months.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Long A/N!
> 
> Heh, now folks know the context of Sergei's slightly smartass remarks in Chapter 3 of Blood Price IRT bullet removal. (I don't want to say too much in case folks haven't read it yet.) 
> 
> I sort of thought this might fit, though. Battling together against a common enemy, and then getting a helping hand before drinking and smoking together for a few hours seemed to be enough to at least spark a sort of friendship. They had kept in contact after this, of course, even fighting together in another instance before he went to the Rochefort Manor for the first time. And yes, Sergei always fits in a running 2, some bone breaking, his famous big-boot roundhouse and his curbstomp. Those are signatures in my head for him given their use in the game. 
> 
> One thing I actually wanted to add that I didn't in any other notes is how I always pictured Sergei as being abnormally strong, though I never mention how. I get the impression-and maybe his pallor and weird eyes give it away-that he underwent some testing through the military, or something. He's not like Bryan-tank-throwing cyborg or anything but he always struck me as a guy that was somewhat beyond human. 
> 
> Sergei can be cold, though he understands the nature of war. He is maybe not a nice man, but to a fellow comrade in arms-fighting the same enemy-he can show that sort of 'Looking out for one of our own' attitude, much how Lars did when he saw someone fighting his foes. I hoped to play up Sergei's hesitance to trust completely(and Lars's as well), though I think the two had that mutual respect; I think they were able to trust one another a bit, given that battlefield camaraderie that can go on. 
> 
> It was a bit fun to drop a hint about the upcoming job, and to mention how he 'wasn't interested in romance.' A nice way to show how times change when brought into contact with a certain person who was able to bring him out of his shell somewhat...someone who was different enough from him to give him that little push. That is how I always saw Sergei-someone who needs someone who is cut from a different cloth to bring him out of his shell while at the same time having guts and bravery, just like I think Lili's rebellious side prefers 'very tough' 'mature' and 'dangerous' over 'refined rich boy', but also someone that might be a little 'challenge' for her. Times can change, indeed!
> 
> Anyhow, I figured I'd tell the little one-shot of how they met! It was pretty fun. And a bit less porny than what you folks are used to, I know.


End file.
